I am a monument of love,
sitting with pen in hand.
I breathe deep inhaling fragrances, for inspiration.
I open ears, to hear birds sing enhancing thoughts.
I dance, moving with energies that carry me in breeze.

I am a monument of light,
writing to fill hearts
I focus, to ignite dreams of self inside song.
I invite all to come,
as love anchors inside my roots to share.
I bow with gratitude,
as the world evolves in blossoming fields of love.

Come, stand beside me
as I write to cradle hearts inside the moment.
A moment, where light leads the way,
as my monument stands tall
and I scribe to guide in grace.

StarBG © 2017

I am a sheep herder
Everything I say is as feed to a dead horse.
I whisper sweet lullabies with a deep guttural sound
That frightens, yet knows the solemnity of the sky.
I cry to a field of pale auspicious clouds
Then feel the tingling fall and accelerating answer.
Much have I seen in the break of days,
Growth always came after cultivation,
And fields were full of nothing.
How all things stay in similarity and change into variety.
But I am a sheep herder,
And I have no sheep.

Oy! My poor heart!

It's expanding just as

the sun is setting

a golden glow awash

capturing light as

it brushes each object

reminding me of golden green

fields alight!

Oy! My poor heart

expands as the sun sets

becoming a whoopee cushion

in which to sit on after it's

blown way out of proportion.

she's standing on a platform
as the train chugs on a pebbled railroad
away to April harvests
and scattered hay bales
where the sun dips low
over rolling hills
and the wind whistles
to scarecrows in the golden wheat fields

he sits by a window framing
the dancing scenery
the evening is orange
and it falls in studious rectangles
across the compartment floor
he sleeps,
and the city steals away from him

by the time he gets off that train
he will have replaced his baseball hat
with a straw one
and her pack of pink bubblegum
will have fallen onto the tracks
when he stumbles on the platform

                                                       ­                      they will grow apart
                                                           ­                  she'll write to him
                                                             ­                he won't write back
                                                                ­             and they'll let it be

People write about the city lights,
how they glimmer and shine so bright,
but all I see is a man made mess,
infrastructure, nothing more, nothing less.

Unkempt properties and sewage scented streets,
under dim lit lights and fluorescent flickering signs.
I'm driving through vast fields and flourishing forests,
that were torn up and toppled when man arrived.

Shropshire the outback of hives and mires
A birthplace of industrial revolution
Built with ***** iron and bricks
submerged in the depths of the water beds

Shropshire the strength in the metal structure
A cast of firm shields and fields
The greenery of contrasting yellowy yields
A mirage of hills sat on pillar heights

The breeze so fresh as sun prints on the canal
The warmth so intense as the bird hums in the nests
Labour artisans and metalsmith at the heart of coalbrook dale
Bricks aisles of pathways along the river
Bordered by vintage delicacies of the magnificent nature

I stepped out of my comfort zone,
And appeared in a ship caught in a storm;
I wanted to tell a story through prose, never known,
But my mind froze and searched somewhere warm.

I went to leave the delicate flower of poetry
In which I have found comfort within the lines.
Fields full in bloom with poetic prosperity.
The flow of stream keeping rhythm in time.

I brought my bare feet to observe from rough peaks,
Overlooking the blank page expanded with power.
Preparing to leave on this journey for weeks,
Leaving the comfort of my sweet fields of flower.

Setting doubts aside, I set my pixie soul to sail,
Becoming narrative of chunky, clunky prose.
Daunted and haunted on a foreign ship to prevail,
I heard poetry beckon through bitter winds that arose.

Though I do respect prose, it is not a flow that I know.
It expands endlessly, like the heart of the sea.
My narration is rhythm, and wherever I go,
The flowers of poetry call back to me.

I soon jumped ship to be at peace where I roam,
Among the enchanting patterns of flowering fields.
I listen again to the trickle of the river, I'm home,
Channeling poetic prosperity this pixie wields.

I've seen you there
amongst the lavender fields
when you thought no one was watching.
Memories that dance
a longing daydream,
weaving strings of lilac through my veins.
I knew you would plague me,
but my eyes supped upon you.
Supped and supped again
until lavished by an allure
a thousand French patisseries
could never usurp.
Your taste inspired madness -
a craze you too endured.
We turned over pages
and bewildered them with Eden's of ivy
that flourished within our skulls.
If Van Gogh were a writer
he'd write like us.
A fable of seraphic beauty
and lucid insanity,
knotted together
with existential philosophy.
"Being and Nothingness"
(Sartre understood)
but we were 50 years too late
to the Café de Flore.
Those were memories of yesteryear,
sealed with the rosy hue of antiquity
I was always fond of.
I can almost lick that scent of lavender
that clings to the photographs,
but I fear my tongue may bleed.
So I admire them on a mantelpiece
in a dust-soaked room
where all that I love
(and have loved)
may live.
I know that room not by daylight,
for I dare not be seen to enter.
Only the high rise moon knows
that those footprints
belong to me.